


Kiss With A Fist

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Non-Canonical Violence, Slap Slap Kiss, stopping the apocalypse ya know just another day for these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A kick in the teeth is good for some<br/>A kiss with a fist is better than none"<br/>- "Kiss With A Fist" by Florence and the Machine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss With A Fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZombieBabs (CommodoreOblivious)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ZombieBabs+%28CommodoreOblivious%29).



> Inspired by [this post](http://eleanor-3.tumblr.com/post/136865084067/radical-rin-eleanor-3-the-wonderful-jinx) and the help of E_Salvatore and radical-rin.

Alex notices that the chanting has ceased, leaving air heavy with a silence that clings to the forest air like a heavy blanket. But soon, the birds pick up their singing and a breeze kicks up, sending in a much needed burst of cool air to wash away the remnants of smoke. She takes in a much needed breathe of air and lets the air wash away the stress that built up in her body. She closes her eyes and clenches her fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. The forest is alive, and she takes it all in, slumping against a tree and letting the old bark dig into her back. It’s a miracle she’s able to be here, to have the luxury of bird songs, balmy summer air, to be alive and have the ability to feel pain. Labored breathing that is not her own joins the choir of birds above. She opens her eyes, and stares at the man who made it all possible.

The man before her is Richard Strand, but he is not. Yet he is. He has his skin, his eyes, his hair, and other physical attributes, but it’s not. Richard Strand stands and acts like a soldier at attention, neatly dressed, and always emotionally composed with a level head screwed tightly on his neck and a plan neatly formulated. Richard Strand would certainly not be kneeling in a forest clearing on all fours like an animal, nor howling with jubilant laughter like one. Strand would not be dressed in such common clothes such as jeans, a t shirt, a cable knit sweater, and hiking boots with mussed up hair and broken glasses. He would not be clawing at the dirt like it was gold that would disappear from underneath him. Most damning of all, Strand would never do as something stupid as throw himself into a fight as an effort to help her without first formulating a plan with the odds stacked against him. Therefor, the man before her is not Richard Strand.

Yet he did just that. He saved her and possibly the world. He saved the luxuries they were enjoying: being able to just be. And despite the different clothes and numerous wounds and bruises, this laughing mess of a man is still Richard Strand. It baffles her. It makes her head reel and ache. This confusion of dichotomies makes her blood boil with a rage she cannot understand; who is this man laughing his off, what has he done with Richard?

She screams and charges for the person who is-and-isn’t Strand. He does nothing to defend himself but he keeps on laughing. She shoves him, he falls on his back, and she straddles him. Her hands grab his shirt collar and she throttles him back him forth screaming even when her throat goes raw. He takes it all with grace and a smile. 

“You fucking bastard!” she cries as she shakes him out of his laughing stupor. “You could’ve died!” She repeats this like a mantra and she calls him every nasty, filthy insult under the sun. But she doesn’t stop until he stops laughing and when he does, he only smiles with a wide grin, placing his grimy hands on her cheeks.The mud is cool against her burning skin, it makes her shudder.

“But we’re alive.” he finally replies with one final laugh. It’s not the loud, boisterous, happy to be alive kind like before. Instead, it’s the one he uses when she is recording an episode, collected and at ease, relaxed yet still holding the air of a refined man. Not satisfied with his answer, she pins his shoulders to the ground. Her looming figure casts a shadow over his bruised face, but despite it, she can still the gleam in his bright blue eyes.

“You nearly died!” she screams again. “You nearly died and I nearly lost you!”

“You could’ve finished the job even if I was killed.” he responds calmly, that damnable wry smile that is _purely_ him is plastered on his face. Any other day in any other situation, she would be flattered that he considered her capable enough to handle a tough situation without his help. But their problem was a doomsday cult, she got caught, and he had to rush in to help at the last second. Her brief lapse of judgement almost damned them while his saved them. She isn’t ungrateful that he rescued her -far from it- but the thought that her mistake would’ve meant their destruction leaves her stomach curdling. But hearing him say those words, without a trace of hate or disdain lifts calms her. 

“I have no fucking clue if I should punch you or kiss you for what you did Richard Strand.” His name rolls off her tongue like a vile poison.

“Alex Reagan, if your recent actions are any indicator, I’d rather have a kiss.” She feels his hands travel up her side, resting at her hips, steadying her shaking body. She feels like crying, but no tears fall.

Her grip on his collar slackens in disbelief from what she heard. Around her, the world feels liked it stopped a second time. She can’t hear anything except the heavy drumming of her heart and their labored breathing. She can’t feel anything except the scratchy material of his shirt still in her clasp and his own heartbeat. And all she can see is a total wreck of man who’s name is Richard Strand. For once, her mind is quiet, still like a lake at dawn. 

Her traces a finger on the stubble on his jaw. He hasn’t shaved in days, never had the time. Honestly, he looks like shit, but she probably isn’t close to becoming a Victoria Secret model herself. A long, hot shower, sleep, a meal, and a new change of clothes would do both of them some good. But she doesn’t want any comforts back at the motel where everyone is waiting for their return.

She stares at him, still wondering if she just misheard him or if it was the wind playing tricks on her.But he does nothing that claims other wise. He only nods, a gesture so slight she almost didn’t catch it, but she sees it. A million thoughts tumble in her head and all of them scream in unison.

_Do it._

So she listens. And she falls knowing that he would catch her.

His lips are chapped, but so hers. They’re cold, but they quickly warm up from how hard she’s pressing herself into him. Her hands find their way into his hair and she claws at his scalp, making him moan. In pain or pleasure? She doesn’t care, doesn’t have the time to because his hands dig into her waist making her gasp in surprise. The pain is brief, enough to continue her assault with added fire and passion. Anything she does, he returns in kind with equal ferocity. She bites, he bites. She tugs, he tugs. When she leaves marks on his neck, he makes sure to do the same. Soon after, he gets tired of their little game of mimicry. He grabs at her hair, feeling the soft waves and the leaves and sticks that tangled their way. He grabs her clothes, relishing the feeling of of wool, denim, cotton and synthetics. He grabs and feels every inch of her that he can get his hands on from his position. He was never a greedy person, but in the moment, feeling all her weight and body heat press down upon him, something in him wanted more.

They lose track of time, too focused with the each other  and lost in the little bubble of safety and joy they were creating, but the chattering of the night birds yanked them back to reality. The sky had darkened, once pale blue was now a mixture pink, burnt orange, and red that reminded her of abstract paintings in a dentist’s office. If they left now, they wouldn’t have to walk the trail back to the parking lot in total darkness.

With a heavy sigh, she rolls off of him, landing on the cold ground. She doesn’t get up immediately though, she feels the chill of the earth against her cheek the weight of what she did coming down her like a house of bricks. Strand helps her up, taking all her weight again and wipes the dirt off her face with the sleeve of his sweater. She averts her gaze back to the looming forest. The pink light does nothing but bring out the blush coming into her cheeks. He smiles.

“I didn’t strike you as the shy one just a minute go.” he teases. He fishes his glasses from the ground and examines them. Broken beyond repair, he shoves them in his pocket. They  know he has a spare in his bag at the hotel. He’s not blind without his glasses, but it makes for future map reading a chore.

She punches his shoulder. There’s no malice behind it, it barely even moves him. “Would you rather I punched you in the jaw and be done with it?” she responds.

He laughs. He takes her hand and guides them down the path back home lit by the setting sun. “I would accept whatever action you took with grace. But for future reference, I’d rather we settle our disagreements with apologies and kisses.”

“Of the same intensity or would you like them to be more tamer?” she says.

“Whatever you do Alex, I can handle.”

“I expect you to deliver on that promise, you do know that, Richard?” Though he can’t see it, she's smiling. 

She can’t see the faint grin tugging on his lips. He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“I always keep my promises, Alex. Don’t you worry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If there are any errors or glaring ooc-ness, dont be afraid to leave a comment and tell me what you thought! Also, Happy Birthday ZombieBabs!


End file.
